The Fallen Heir,

The courtyard was eerily still, as if the very stones beneath Edric's feet held their breath. Dawn's first light crept over the towering castle walls, casting a golden hue upon the crimson banners that hung limp in the morning hush. Yet no warmth could reach him.

Prince Edric stood at the head of his assembled men, the muted clank of armor breaking the silence as they shifted in uneasy anticipation. A chill wind whispered past the gaps in his breastplate, seeping through the leather lining beneath—cold, but not as cold as the dread tightening its grip on his chest.

Above, from the high stone balcony, King Theobald watched him with an expression carved from granite. No farewell. No blessing. Just a calculating stare, assessing Edric as one might a weapon before sending it to battle.

He had long ceased expecting affection from his father. Theobald's love was like his rule—distant, ruthless, and conditional. As a child, Edric had flinched beneath the weight of that gaze, shrinking under every clipped command, every disapproving glare. His mother—the late queen—had been his only shield. Her presence had softened Theobald's edges, her voice a balm against his cutting words.

But she was gone. And without her, the palace had become a fortress of cold stone and colder hearts.

Now, his father was sending him away. Not with honor, but with whispers branding this mission for what it was. A death sentence.

Still, Edric stood tall. Not for Theobald, but for his mother who had once told him, "Fear is a ghost—it only gains power if you feed it. He exhaled slowly, forcing steel into his spine, his gloved fingers brushing over a delicate handkerchief tucked inside his armor—Eleanor's final gift.

Her name was a salve to his wounds.

He could still see her standing in the palace gardens, sunlight catching the golden strands of her hair, laughter on her lips. A noblewoman by birth, but a queen in spirit long before she ever wore a crown. He had loved her for her fire, for her defiance against the rigid expectations of court life. Where others sneered at the lower-born, Eleanor knelt to help a servant gather spilled fruit. Where others sought favor, she sought kindness. Where Theobald ruled with fear, she ruled Edric's heart with nothing but love.

Their marriage had been a rare moment of joy in the kingdom's dark halls. Even the common folk had celebrated—a union that felt like hope.

But Theobald's eyes had lingered too long on Eleanor. His praise had been too possessive, too intent. Edric had sensed it then—the king's growing resentment, his quiet hunger for his wife.

Then came the war.

A campaign to the far reaches of the East. A war with too few men, too little strategy. A mission designed for failure.

Exile disguised as duty.

A sharp nudge against his shoulder pulled him from his thoughts.

"If you scowl any harder, your face might never recover."

Edric turned to find Gareth smirking, adjusting the straps of his armor.

A slave once, a brother now.

Gareth had come to the kingdom as a boy—one of many prisoners spared after Theobald's conquest of the West. He should have been sent to the mines like the others. Instead, Theobald had seen potential. The son of a fallen warlord, trained from birth to wield a blade—too valuable to waste in a pit.

And so, Gareth had been brought to court. Forced to fight Theobald's wars. Forced to kneel before the same man who had ordered the slaughter of his people.

But he had never bent to Theobald's will.

Edric had expected to hate him, just as Gareth had every right to hate him in return. But in Gareth, he had found something unexpected—a friend. A man who spoke his mind, who mocked the royal courtiers openly, who fought beside him not out of duty, but out of trust.

And Theobald hated that.

A prince and a former slave, side by side.

Another thing Edric had taken from him.

"Try not to look too angry," Gareth muttered, glancing up at the balcony. "If you keep glaring at him like that, you'll make it obvious you know exactly what he's doing."

Edric exhaled, shifting in the saddle. "He thinks he's won."

"And he thinks you're a fool," Gareth said, voice quieter now. "He's watching us like a spider watches a fly. You know that, right?"

Edric tightened his grip on the reins. "I know."

Gareth sighed dramatically. "Good. Because I'd rather not follow a doomed prince into battle."

Edric shot him a look.

Gareth only grinned. "I mean it, truly. If we die, you'll owe me an apology in the afterlife. But let's try not to die, shall we?"

Edric huffed a reluctant laugh. "Noted."

Gareth nodded, satisfied. Then his gaze flickered down to Edric's gauntlet, where the edge of Eleanor's handkerchief peeked out.

"Ah," he murmured. "That's why you're so tense."

Edric didn't respond.

"She didn't come to see you off, did she?" Gareth asked, his tone gentler now.

A muscle in Edric's jaw ticked.

He hadn't let himself dwell on it. Hadn't let himself acknowledge the gnawing ache in his chest when she didn't appear among the gathered nobles.

"She was probably kept away," Gareth said, watching him. "By force, I mean."

Edric's throat tightened. "Or by choice."

Gareth exhaled, then tilted his head slightly. "Or maybe she was afraid." His voice was unreadable now. "Afraid you might just know how hard she pushed for this war to happen."

Edric's grip on the reins went white-knuckled. His gaze snapped to Gareth, but the man was already adjusting his saddle, as if the words had been nothing more than an afterthought.

A wariness settled deep in Edric's gut. He shook it off.

No. Eleanor loved him. She would never...

Would she?

"Come on," Gareth said, nudging his shoulder. "Let's disappoint him, shall we?"

Edric nodded, his grip tightening on the reins.

"And let's make it quick," Gareth added, chuckling. "I need to be back before Sara decides to have that baby without me."

A horn's sharp call shattered the silence, signalling their departure. The great portcullis groaned open, revealing the long road stretching toward a future bristling with uncertainty.

With a final glance at the fortress that had never truly been his home, Edric nudged his stallion forward.

And yet, he could still feel Theobald's gaze upon him.

Watching. Waiting. Smiling.

Like a serpent, satisfied that its prey had finally wandered into the open.

Edric clenched his jaw and rode harder.

Gareth was right.

Theobald thought he had won.

But this was not the end of Edric's story.

He would return. He would defy fate itself to see Eleanor again.

And he would prove—once and for all—that his life belonged to him, not a pawn in Theobald's game.